


Ghost Song

by secretagentfan



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Gen, Nezumi's past, Young Nezumi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:50:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretagentfan/pseuds/secretagentfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>13-year-old Nezumi finds some flowers and tries to get a job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Song

**Author's Note:**

> Refresher of Nezumi past for those who haven't read the novels/need a little brush up: Nezumi was 4 during the Mao Massacre after which he lived with his grandmother. She was killed when he was 10 and he was thrown into the pit in the correctional facility with Rou which he lived in for two years. He then met Shion escaping from the Moondrop with a concealed knife on Rou’s orders. He then returned to West Block and the book room where he used to live with his grandmother. He met Inukashi after that.
> 
> This is about a year after Nezumi's acclimated to West Block placing him at 13.  
> So naturally, it's /very/ uplifting.

 

               Nezumi has never been one to handle the delicate appropriately. He doesn’t have time to tenderly watch his step--- he has to keep walking forward and so he does. His is a simple, grueling existence, but he owes it to those left behind.

     He knows how to break things; he knows exactly the amount of pressure it takes to snap the wrist of a groping hand; he knows how to make a man twice his size crumple to the ground and beg for mercy. He understands the body better than he should, understands the feeling of a knife in his hand and how it feels to press it inside squishy, disgusting flesh.

     It’s a talent, destruction--one that Nezumi never thought he’d have a taste for, as there was a time where he was as soft and pure as the flowers in his dreams but returning to the boy he was back then means certain death, or worse.

     Yet Nezumi’s dreams are haunted. He awakes with the vivid memory of brushing thin white petals with his fingers. He feels once-warm beds and skin. He plants flowers in damp soil filled with sprouting seeds in his sleep. Yet Nezumi cannot remember ever once touching something so unblemished--something so green and fresh and new.

     He dreams of sunshine casting a shadow through lush forests filled with leafy trees. He dreams of sweet air, not the stink of the marketplace, air thick with light and life and honey _._

     And he wakes up and forgets everything. The forest transforms the moment his eyes open and Nezumi awakens inside a new one, one crushed and folded into perfect paper books.

     Nezumi forces himself to sit up in his bed, wondering why he’s sweating, and thinks back, trying to remember his dream. He is blocked by the crackle of flame and screams, images of trees snapping and splintering, and the tiny beads of sweat that sprouted up on Gran’s neck as she carried him away from the blaze.

     Part of Nezumi wonders exactly how his family looked as they burned. He knows he saw and yet when he tries to confirm his memories he finds nothing. It’s been 9 years and he still can only hear his father calling out to him telling him to _run_ and then--nothing.

Everything before that day is blank-- the forest and his old life are blurry and assessable only through his grandmother’s stories.

     Is it mercy to have forgotten his mother’s voice, his sister’s gurgling babble, in order to never know the sounds of their cries? Nezumi can imagine their screaming, he can imagine them crying amongst the flames—who wouldn’t? Yet he can’t imagine his mother’s songs, his sister’s laugh. It hardly seems like a fair exchange, but then again, nothing about his situation was fair to begin with.

His mind guides him to emptiness; his body is not so forgiving. It remembers all: flame and agony, faint impressions of blossoms, twigs and leaves under his feet, sharp little seeds in his hands.

Nezumi wraps his arms around himself, forces his breath to even out and goes to work.

     He’s moving rotted wood outside from the last flood for one of the more popular actors when he sees a patch of grass and wildflowers impossibly surviving next to the tattered walls of the theatre. He has focus. Nezumi doesn’t want to carry wood, but it’s in his best interest to get in good with the actors if he ever wants a role for himself. He steps on the wood, hearing it splinter and it feels a little nice to break something for no reason, but his gaze keeps returning to the buds. Poppies?

     He shakes his head, goes inside and picks up the next board-- this one taller than him and smelling of mildew. He turns it on its side and tries to balance it as best he can, lifting it off the ground. It’s heavy. Blisters are starting to form on his hands but he’s being paid based on results, and there are six more boards to take care of after this one. He counts the steps until he reaches his pile and releases it-- finally letting his legs give out as he catches his breath.

     The patch of grass and un-bloomed poppies seems to mock his exhaustion. He thinks of the boards he has yet to carry and tells himself to get up. He finds himself crawling over to the flowers instead.

Curiously, he runs a hand through them. His body tenses at the familiar damp prickling sensation of the grass underneath his palm. Dew stings his blisters, but Nezumi does not pull away. Something about the grass feels ancient, alive. Carefully he feels one of the poppy buds, it’s stronger than he expected. Less delicate. He returns his focus to the grass, hesitantly resting his hot cheek against it. He buries his face in it, not caring if he gets dirt on him. Dirt is welcome. It doesn’t smell like home, because Nezumi doesn’t remember what that smells like—but it’s something close. He shuts his eyes.

 

     “Can’t even do a fucking job without nodding off should have known better than to hire a kid—“

His hair is being pulled and Nezumi’s no longer in the grass. It hurts. He forces his eyes open, blindly punches out and feels his hand connect with something soft and warm. He’s unceremoniously dumped on the soil, feels himself roll over twice before he stumbles up to his feet, hand already going for the knife in his pocket.

     It’s his employer. Nezumi’s hand falls, heart sinking. His hope for a job at the theatre drains as the man moves to grab him again. Nezumi turns and runs, cursing himself.

     He returns to the book room that night hungry, and broke. He leans against the door for support and looks at his hand, trying to remember the feeling of the soft, strong poppy buds. He shuts his eyes and finds he can.

Nezumi smiles a little before sliding to the floor, utterly spent. It’s almost worth it.

     When the flowers crunch under his fingers and the grass becomes yellow and straw-like, when Nezumi can no longer visit the patch because it’s been covered by the Disposer’s equipment he pretends to feel nothing until he almost does.

     Nezumi’s heart whispers a distant song that he knows he must silence.

“A song will never save anyone,” he mutters to himself as he puts out the lamp for that night and grabs the tattered remains of the boy from No. 6’s shirt from his pillow. It’s foolish to keep the cloth when it’s too worn to wear, but Nezumi can’t bring himself to throw it away. He runs the fabric under his fingers for a few minutes, brings it to his face and breathes in once before sticking it back into his pillow.

     Nezumi lies in the too large bed meant to harbor both him and Gran and stretches out his hand, reaching out to touch the air beside him, wanting desperately for someone to fill it. He imagines someone does as he shuts his eyes, brings his knees to his chest and carefully clasps his hands together. He’s holding hands with himself and it’s pathetic, he knows-- he has other better things to worry about than a lack of human contact, but for now he shuts his eyes and imagines someone else’s warmth and it makes sleep come a little easier.

_A song will never save anyone._

It’s a fact.

A promise.

That doesn’t stop Nezumi from singing.

     Humming under his breath, he’ll carefully put together melodies. Some short, some long. His songs are disordered, amateurish-- he’s hardly been taught. The happiness he feels surging within him is a fluke.

     He berates himself for it, but he cannot stop singing, the impulse is there, fearsome and overpowering and it controls him the same way the little patch of life had forced him to keep returning every day, to try and keep it alive just a little longer. 

Secretly, Nezumi returns to the former-grass bed while the Disposers are out gathering. He sits beside it and sings a soft familiar melody. It feels right.

     The manager for the theatre hears him and a slow smile forms on his lips. 

_A song will never save anyone._

Nezumi sings anyway, for a price, trying desperately to prove himself wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy No. 6 day! :D


End file.
